


A Day Like Today

by poisontaster



Series: Transmutation [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Claiming, Dean Has Self-Esteem Issues, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, Marking, Multi, Polyamory, Rimming, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-08
Updated: 2006-12-08
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5098364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one quits.  No one leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day Like Today

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Transmutation](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/152486) by mona1347. 



> Set in mona1347's Transmutation universe.

_Welcome back_  
_Says the voice on the radio_  
_But I never left_  
_I was always right here_

_I wish I could comfort you_  
_If love is our defense_  
_It's all right, I can comfort you_  
_If you let me I could love you to death_  
"A Day Like Today" by Tom McRae

 

He's pumping gas and he's tired. The fumes are so strong they're giving him a headache. Or maybe it's just staring out into the sun glare for hours at a time, even with sunglasses. He wonders if he should let Sam or Jess take some time at the wheel, curl up in the back and see if he can catch some z's.

He hasn't slept well the past few days, he doesn't know why. With perfect cosmic irony, Sam's slept like a brick and Jess usually does anyway unless one of Sam's nightmares wakes them all. And so it's just been Dean, lying awake or crawling quiet out of the bed to sit and watch the two of them sleep, tangled together.

He remembers how young they are then, the darkness and winter grass color of Jess's hair obscuring her scars. A full four years younger in real time and how much more in experience? In just raw batshittery? He imagines them like this together in their bed in Palo Alto and that's when he starts drinking.

The first night, he crawled back in with them, but it felt weird. They'd edged over into the space he'd vacated and he no longer fit, separate, cramped. The second night, he'd just crawled into the other bed. It was easier and though it took him a while to get used to all the empty space around him, he eventually sank down into exhaustion. At some point, though, they must have noticed he was gone. He woke up at the bottom of the pile, Jess's elbow wedged in his jaw and Sam half on top of him, crushing his ribs. The third night, when he drank himself to sleep, he just woke up with a blanket thrown over him and no idea which of them did it.

He looks up, squinting and in pain, when Sam and Jess come clattering out of the store, hands full of candy and laughing so much they're leaning on each other for support. Jess is giggling so hard her legs make x's as she tries not to fall and Sam snakes an arm around her waist, holding her up even though he's half-doubled over himself.

Dean has a momentary sense of warmth seeing them like this, silly and happy and laughing, but it fades faster than he likes as he realizes yet again that this is probably just what they'd been like _all the time_ in California. After him, before him, depending on how you look at it. The wounds between them are healing, smooth and fast, and their natural state of man/woman, Sam plus Jess, doesn't leave much room for a Dean in the equation.

He knows it's fucked up and wrong to be bitter that there's no place in his brother's (and his brother's girlfriend's) bed for him, all right? He's crystal fucking clear on that point. But that doesn't leave him much leeway to feel anything at all and so he jerks the nozzle from the Impala's tank too hard and splashes gas down his baby's side. Dean snarls and curses under his breath for being so clumsy, snatching handfuls of paper towels from the dispenser and mopping the Impala's side, hoping the paint doesn't blister.

"Hey Dean," Jess says, her voice still trembly with giggles, "want some candy?" She holds a handful of sugared rainbow gummy strips out across the roof.

Something about that sets her and Sam off again and as Dean grimly screws the gas cap back on and closes the panel, she sags into Sam again and again Sam puts an arm around her to keep her from falling down. Dean's face feels too tight as he gets into the car. His headache's radiating down into his neck and shoulders like guy wires pulled too tight.

He climbs back in the driver's seat and slams the door behind him before leaning over to the passenger's side and calling out, "Anyone who's not in the goddamn car when I pull out is getting left!"

Still twittering like idiots, the two of them pile into the back together, half falling in with Jess on top of Sam. Which just makes them laugh more. As he watches in the rearview, Jess tilts her face towards Sam's in wordless demand for a kiss and Sam's only too happy to oblige.

Okay, now, there are _limits_.

"Hey!" he says sharply, putting the Impala in gear and peeling out. They lurch on the seat, clutching each other, yelping wordlessly. "I'm not fucking driving Miss Daisy here. One of you'd better get up here and keep the damn driver awake so we don't all die in a fiery, tragic wreck."

In the mirror, he watches them exchange a _look_ and his fingers go white-knuckled on the wheel. Then Jess untangles herself and grabs the back of the seat, throwing one long leg over. "Jeez, Dean, what bug crawled up your ass this morning?"

At the same time, Sam scrapes himself upright and leans to put a hand on Dean's shoulder, asking quietly, "You want me to drive a while, man?"

Dean jerks his arm away, more sharply than he intends, and the car veers a little. Jess squawks, tumbling the rest of the way over the seat. He hears her shoulder hit the dash with a solid, meaty thunk. "Goddamn it, Dean!" she starts, launching into the foulest rant Dean might have ever heard and miles away from the pretty, breezy student from Stanford.

It shouldn't make him feel better, to think that.

"I got it," Dean says shortly to Sam, who raises his hands and leans back in surrender.

Five minutes later, he and Jess are chuckling over the seat at each other again, fumbling their way through some story Dean only half understands about some guy named Jerry, a bowl of Jello, gummi worms and a really hot day.

Dean's headache is worse.

***

When they stop for lunch, Dean comes out of the diner bathroom, drying his hands on his jeans, and finds them pow-wowwing in the booth, heads all bent together even though Jess had been sitting on his side before he got up. His heart kicks a little in his chest but he keeps up his slow amble.

Jess is the one that spots him first and he watches her arm move to touch Sam's thigh under the table in warning. They both straighten up and try to look innocent, like Dean's the biggest rube to ever walk in the joint. He doesn't know whether to be amused or insulted. He wonders if Dad ever felt like this, watching he and Sam's hijinks.

Dean doesn't like that thought at all.

"God, Dean; we thought you might have _died_ in there," Jess says, cramming back in his side of the booth after he sits and glomming a handful of fries from his plate.

"Wasn't for lack of effort," Dean says, because he can play this fucking game too. "Somebody just took a pretty craptacular shit in there. Juicy."

"Ew." Sam makes a face and puts his burger down. " _Dean_."

Dean bares his teeth, also showing the mess of chewed up fries and chicken in his mouth. Sam makes a stifled, sickened noise and looks down fast.

"You both are _ten years old_ ," Jess pronounces, disgusted. Then, when Sam looks up, she opens her mouth, showing him a mouthful of her pot pie. A mushed up pea falls out and drops to her plate with a small splat.

Sam makes the noise again and focuses quickly back on his own meal. "I hate you _both_ ," he says viciously under his breath, stabbing his pancakes and Jess and Dean share a foody, mushy grin.

And Dean feels a little better.

For a minute.

***

Of course, any good feeling goes right out the fucking window when they get their room for the night and Sam says, all slick and casual-like (or so he _thinks_ , fucker), "Why don't you take the first shower, Dean?"

Jess is lounging on the bed behind Sam but watching him. Her vest is unzipped, showing long expanses of skin, melted and unmarred, pink and white, like a candy. Sam's hand is on her hip. Her eyes look dark, too bright and he's filled with this same helpless sense of…something. Something that feels too big for the skin that contains it. He mutters something that he doesn't even understand and trudges into the mildew-smelling bathroom. His chest aches and as he shrugs out of his clothes, he finds himself rubbing it like a cramp in the muscle.

First shower means the water is hot and fresh and Dean cranks it up and bows his head under it, feeling it start to unknot tight muscles, open up his taut lungs, loosen his balls from where they've felt snugged up to his body all day. After a quick and dirty wash, he soaps up and wraps his fingers around his soft cock, figuring if he wants to get off tonight, he's pretty much on his own, and ain't that a bitch?

"You know, I could help you with that," Jess says from behind him a moment before she pushes the translucent curtain aside on loud, clattering casters.

Dean startles and almost slips on the slick enamel of the rusty tub. Jess laughs and crowds in behind him, stabilizing him between the wall and the naked length of her body. She's warm, even compared to the water. Her arms go around his waist and as he plants his feet again, small, clever fingers slip around his half-hard cock making it twitch and commandeer his blood flow. "Jess—" he says finally.

He feels her smile against his shoulder. "Dean. Since when have you ever objected to getting your crank yanked?"

He flushes, mostly indistinguishable after the scalding of the shower. "No," he says, ignoring the treacherous thrust of his hips into her grip. Her thumb rubs just right against his cock head, just the right way and he feels everything but his iron-hard cock turning to jelly in her hands. "I just… I just thought…"

Small cat-sharp teeth nip just behind his armpit. The palm of her other hand presses him back into her, fingers scratching idly and lightly at his belly. "You thought what?" she asks, her voice thick, amused.

Sam can't do this to him, throw him off track, make him feel like a mouse on the wrong end of a cat, but Jess does. He doesn't want to say to her _I thought you were going to fuck Sam instead of me_ and he doesn't know what else to say instead. He mutters, "Nothing. Whatever," and feels her gloating, silent laugh against his arm. He wants to feel angry, but he can't grab onto it, slipping from his fingertips like a bar of soap.

It isn't just the hunting she's gotten good at; she's learned every one of his kinks and triggers like she was going to be tested on it and they all know Sam wouldn't hook up with a dumb girl.

 _Just another reason they don't need me blowing the curve,_ Dean thinks, head down and swallowing back a moan.

In any case, it doesn't take her long to bring him off. Dean's hand snaps out to brace himself on the tile, teeth shutting on his cry. Jess lets him go to slip around and slide under the spray. It's an awkward fit for her to go to her knees—she's not a short girl, not matter how she looks standing up next to Sammy—but he shuffles his feet and she bends in ways that pretty much blow what's left of his brain and it somehow works out. He thinks he can smell her, above the chlorinated spray, salt-sweet like the seashore. It aches familiarly in his belly, Jess's smell, the smell inside her that he's had on his fingers, his lips, his cock.

The shower washed off most of his spunk but she licks him clean anyway, tiny, forceful kitten licks that make him twitch and shake with overstimulation until he can't take it anymore. A bitten off, "…fuck!" and he puts both his hands on her head to force her off him.

Jess makes a regretful little mew and reaches behind her to cut off the water. She licks the beaded wetness from her mouth and shakes her sodden hair out of her face. Her eyes look bigger with her hair slicked back and she meets his gaze squarely. On impulse, Dean reaches and flattens his palm against her cheek—the scarred one, of course. Jess's eyes flutter shut and she pushes her cheek more firmly into the touch.

"Jess," he says gently, because he's too tired and fucked out to stay angry anymore. "You didn't have to… You don't…" The words tangle around him like rope and he gropes for the blade to cut them all free. "It's okay. I get it. I know."

Jess's eyes open and her blissful expression alters to a blend of amusement and impatience. "Dean, baby," she says conversationally, "you don't know shit. It's your biggest problem."

She sighs and pushes him back until his shoulders hit the rear wall so she can get to her feet. Once up, she pats him twice above his pectoral and then tugs at his arm. "God, Dean, sometimes it's all I can do to not put your head through the wall. I don't know how Sam did it. C'mon. Let's get you dried off."

Dean doesn't know why he stands passively on the bathmat and lets Jess scrub him head to toe with one of the scratchy bathroom towels like a little kid. He only knows that he does, just as he lets her shove him in the direction of the door.

He's shaking.

He's shaking and he really doesn't want to go through the door but Jess is standing expectantly at his back and the ghost of his mom's always over his shoulder so he opens the door and makes himself take a step forward.

…and stops short.

Sam must have used up their entire stock of candles, all of them burning in various places around the room. Dean dimly hopes Sam didn't use the specially consecrated ones from St. Creevy's Convent because the nuns there totally give him the creeps. It smells sweet, cloves and lemongrass and sage. The thin scrim of smoke hanging in the air doesn't do anything to hide that the bed's been moved, though, the blankets stripped back over the foot to lie on the floor and the whole shebang is ringed in circle of salt as thick as his wrist. It doesn't hide Sam, either, standing naked with the canister of salt, just inside the 'door' in the circle. It doesn't hide Sam's smile.

Jess presses against his back again, one hand splayed out over the small of his back, cutting off retreat. "Go get on the bed, Dean," she says and her tone will take no argument.

He tries anyway, though. He's like that. "Jess—"

"Do it," she snaps. "Hands and knees."

There should be some smart crack here, he thinks. Or maybe just a mean one. Something. Something to deflect this, to stop it before it begins.

He doesn't have one. He feels empty.

Dean goes.

Sam intercepts him just inside the salt line, puts his hands to either side of Dean's head and brings their mouths together. Once, twice, light as air. On the third kiss, Sam's tongue slides between Dean's lips, opening him easy as you please. Dean hates the noise that comes from his throat, his hands flailing up to grab Sam's arms above the elbow. _Stop,_ he wants to say. _Stop. I can't._ But he doesn't even know what that means, even if he could talk, which he can't.

What happened to his voice? Where is his voice?

His shaking is worse and Sam's hands slide down from Dean's face to his arms, rubbing up and down like he's trying to massage blood back into cold limbs. "On the bed," Sam echoes finally, drawing back and swiping the ball of his thumb across Dean's bottom lip and then sucking the wetness away. "Your face towards the headboard."

Sam lies down on the mattress, his legs trailing off the foot and guides Dean into place over him so Dean's straddling his face. Dean's still not sure about this. He just came a few minutes ago and for as hot as Sam looks, naked and hardening under him, he's not sure he can do this. He looks backwards at Jess, still leaning against the bathroom doorway, a faint, pleased smile on her face.

He doesn't know what she sees on his face, but whatever it is, it makes her face soften so that the scar pulls it askew. She walks across the room, careful to come through the ritual door and ruffles her fingers through his hair. "It's okay, Dean. It'll be good, I swear," she says. "Good for all of us." Then she hesitates. "You won't believe our words. You don't…you don't trust words. But you guys, Winchesters…rituals mean something to you. So this is what we're going to do. This is our ritual. Okay?" She tips his head sideways. Sam's thumb rubs idly in the hollow of Dean's hip, distracting him. "Okay, baby?"

Dean wets his lips. He doesn't know what this means, what she's trying to tell him. What either of them are trying to tell him. Bottom line, he just doesn't fucking know. And he's tired.

"Okay."

Her smile is brilliant and she comes in to brush her lips over his before turning away to grab the salt canister and close the circle with the three of them inside. At the same time, Sam opens his mouth and takes the tip of Dean's cock into his mouth. Dean jerks, lurches, plunges deeper into Sam's throat. Sam makes a small choking noise, but he only opens his mouth and throat wider, tipping his head back a little. Dean thinks he would've gotten up and put an end to all this—whatever the fuck this is—right then, except Sam stretches his arms over his head and wraps his fingers around Dean's wrists like shackles, holding him in place.

That might not have even been enough to stop him, but a moment behind it, Jess's small, vicious weight hits his calves and the backs of his knees, anchoring him from behind. Dean shudders, shudders harder when her fingernails rake along his sides and flanks, hard enough to raise welts.

"This is how it works, Dean," she says, sliding closer, stretching out over his back. Her pubic hair is rough against his ass and he finds something weirdly kinky about that. "You belong to me. You belong to Sam. You get me? We own you. And we belong to you. We all own each other. No one backs out, no one leaves. You're ours."

Sam takes an especially brutal suckle at Dean's cock and he arches again, fingers tightening in the sheets. It's almost too much, cresting that edge between _again?_ and _no more_.

Her fingers trace back down the line of his spine, lighter this time, almost ticklish, like she's counting vertebrae. Her fingers run all the way down to the curve of his ass, spread him open to the air. He catalogues all these things, registers them but when she shifts on the mattress and leans to swipe her tongue across his asshole, it's still a surprise.

Dean yelps, completely undignified and tries to pull away again, but they've got him, arms and legs and cock. They've got him and Dean goes nowhere, does nothing except a little writhe that doesn't help. Jess smiles against his body; Dean squirms. "I think he liked that," Jess says, heated puffs of air on sensitive, puckered skin, and Sam hums noisily in agreement.

"Hey," Dean says weakly, fingers and toes digging deeper into the mattress. He can't collect his words, can't assemble his thoughts. "Hey."

"Shhh." Jess licks again, wet, wide and then suddenly presses against him—into him—with the tip of her tongue pointedly. Sam switches to lapping at the head of Dean's cock; he licks in counterpoint to Jess and Dean isn't fully hard again yet, but he's getting there fast and he still feels himself falling apart between them like wet tissue. "Shhh, Dean, it's okay."

But it's not. It can't be.

"No," and he doesn't want to say it, absolutely _does not_ , but he can't hold it together when they're _doing this_ , tonguing him apart faster than he can rebuild. He's breathing too fast and he can't tell if it's arousal or just plain chickenshit fear. "No. Wait…"

Sam lets go of one of Dean's wrists and reaches up to caress Dean's shoulder, his neck, his face. His mouth leaves Dean's cock to crane up and press his lips against Dean's hips, Dean's belly.

"Don't," Dean whispers.

"We can't stop, Dean," Sam murmurs. Jess twists and pushes her tongue through the muscle, deep inside of him. He spasms and squeaks wanting to run, wanting to curl up but they won't let him, they won't let him and he doesn't know what else he can do. "Not until it's finished. You have to do it. End it. You have to say the words." Sam's lips drag along Dean's length, now rigid and starting to pearl pre-come. Dean's breath catches, stutters, and it hurts his throat. "It's not a ritual until you say the words."

"What?" he demands. Jess's tongue is fucking him, fucking his _ass_ and he writhes as much as he can. It shouldn't feel like this. Fucking should be fun and painless and uncomplicated and this is anything but. "Fuck, I'll say…" A small purr of cloth as his fingers tear the sheet. His toes flex and God, it's never been like this. Nothing was ever like this. "Anything. I'll say anything."

Sam doesn't answer, only takes Dean's cock into his mouth again, sucking him deep. Jess traces his ass with her fingertip too, massaging the muscle, pulling him apart for her tongue to go deeper…and where the fuck did a nice little California college girl learn to do this anyway?

 _Maybe she wasn't ever that nice_ , a voice suggests in the back of his mind. _Maybe that was all in your mind, Dean._

"Please," he says, his voice breaking. He's aware he's fucking Sam's mouth, the only motion he can really make and Sam's just taking it. Jesus. Just _taking it_. The obscene, encouraging noises coming from Sam—and Jess, for that matter—scramble everything, making it less clear instead of more. It feels so good, it hurts so bad. He thinks if he comes, he might die. Really, actually die.

Jess—Oh God, thank God—stops and slithers up his body again. "You just have to say it, Dean. Do you understand?" Her hand slips around his chest and she twists his nipple. Dean can't breathe and it hurts but he's going to come again. He just can't even help it. "Tell me you understand."

And…maybe he does. But he's not sure he wants to. It looms above him, around him, too big, too much. It's a whole lifetime of complicated and Dean's gotten by very well without it all this time. Jess's finger circles his opening again and then plunges deep, slicked only by her saliva in him. His hips buck and Sam just takes it again.

This is wrong. This is _so wrong._

"Tell me, Dean," she says again, her fingertip touching deep within him, where it aches, where it feels better than anything ever. "You have to say it, c'mon."

A second finger in him now and Sam's hand on his balls, fondling, urging.

" _Dean._ "

And what's one more breaking?

He can't. He _can't._

Jess puts her mouth against his ear. "Fuck you, Dean," she says, hard and vicious and angry. "Fuck you. You don't get to run away. We love you. Do you hear me? We _love you_."

Dean screams, his back arching like a cat as he comes. God. _God._

Everything tears loose from the root. He doesn't make any sense. He can't make any sense of it. He only knows them, Jess and Sam, here, all around him.

Jess's arms wrap around him, easing him down on his side and Sam wriggles up awkwardly to enclose him from the front. Dean feels so boneless, so weak. Surrounded. He turns his face into the pillow but Sam's fingers scoop underneath and lift his cheek away. Sam kisses his mouth and Dean tastes himself on Sam's lips, Sam's tongue. "Say it, Dean."

Dean shudders. "Yours," he says and it's not as hard as he thought it would be.

Jess's arms squeeze tighter. "Again, baby," she says gently, lipping against the nape of his neck. "You know how this works. You have to say it again."

He does know. It's a ritual. Three times to declare your will. Three time to close the rite. He makes a noise like a sob and their hands are all over him, soothing, easing, caressing.

It's always three.

"Yours," he says, softer than before but clearer. "I'm yours."

"And don't you forget it," Jess says, her teeth sinking deep until he feels flesh give way and bleed. From the front, Sam nips his lip until their kiss tastes like pennies and come. "You're bound now. By the circle, by your own words, by your blood."

"Nobody quits, nobody leaves," Sam says gruffly. "You're ours."

"And we're yours."

"Yeah." Dean nods. Or thinks he does, he's really too tired to tell if he makes it or not. "Okay."

Hands pet his hair, his skin. He can't tell them apart any more. At some point, he closed his eyes. He doesn't even remember when. God, he's so tired. He leaves them shut and Sam and Jess curl up around him.

"Sleep, baby," Jess says. Kisses on his face, then. His and hers. "We're here. We're right here."

Held, Dean sleeps.


End file.
